


Weathered

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Attempt at Humor, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fallow Mire aggravates old wounds. Kat finds a way to help that she actually enjoys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weathered

The Fallow Mire is a wretched place.

By the time they reach the second beacon, Kat's muscles ache more fiercely than they have in weeks. She can hardly see through the pouring rain, which means that her companions can't, either—which means that they all keep accidentally _stepping in the fucking water_ , and then another fight with another round of corpses begins.

Varric is the only one who complains. Cassandra and Bull are weathering this crap well enough, so Kat keeps her mouth shut, too, even if she'd really like to indulge in some whining. It would look bad, she thinks, if the Herald didn’t wholeheartedly embrace her duty to clear this swamp of every slimy thing it has to offer.

Her lightning strikes the last terror, felling it, and Bull lowers his axe, breathing hard.

"That's it," she says, pushing her sopping hair off her face. "It's dark, we're all miserable, and there's an adequate place to camp just over there. We'll finish this in the morning."

Cassandra looks as if she might disapprove, but she doesn't argue. Kat leads the way to the half-sheltered cave. By the time they've pitched the first tent, a few of Harding's scouts have joined them. _Easier to find your way when there aren't bloody corpses in your way_ , she thinks, a touch wearily.

Varric ducks into his tent, waving good night, and Kat straightens up from inspecting the newest requisition to find that all her companions have abandoned her and the rain for the dry insides of their tents. Shaking her head, she stoops into the tent she shares with Cassandra.

Except it isn't Cassandra inside.

She freezes. It would be so, _so_ easy just to stammer out an apology and hurry back into the rain, but any autonomy she has over her muscles appears to have left her.

Bull has his own tent, of course. Not even Varric would fit in here with him, and she can feel how confined the space is with her invading it—even though he's seated, all the way down there on the ground, on his bedroll. The points of his horns _still_ come up to her shoulders. His boots and brace are off, the leg of his trousers rolled up to the knee, and he's hunched over, fingers kneading away at his deeply scarred leg.

He, of course, pays no mind to her intrusion, or the stupid blush she can feel coloring up her cheeks. _Andraste's tits, Kat, you're nearly thirty_ , she thinks, frustrated. _Could you bloody act like it, just **once**?_

"Hey. Need something?"

She shakes her head. "Sorry. Wrong tent. I got turned around."

She's going to leave—she _is_ —but she sees the slightest wince of pain as his thumb digs into a sore spot, and she hesitates.

"I could help with that," she offers, the words emerging in a rush.

He raises his intact eyebrow at her. "Uh-huh."

That's not a _no_ , so she braces herself and kneels down in what little space is left on the ground, folding her legs beneath her. She doesn't do much with fire, but the basics she knows is enough; something like this requires a gentler touch, anyway. She wakes up her magic, calls heat to life in her hands, and wraps them around his lower calf.

He leans back on his hands. "Huh."

She presses her thumbs in, massaging. The scars are deep—like claws sank in and pulled his flesh apart. She wonders where he sustained the injury, but doesn't ask. He has so many scars. She somehow doubts he even remembers where each of them came from.

"That's a neat trick," he says at last. The tension in the muscle and joint beneath her fingers has eased significantly.

"We all had little ways to make our magic useful in the Circle." She's careful with her thumbs around the joint; it feels healthy enough to her, like the bone healed properly, but she's not a proper healer. "One of my friends got the worst headaches; a bit of cold and a scalp massage always helped her."

She moves lower on his foot, pressing her thumbs into the arch; he sighs, eye closing, and she feels a little rush of pride at having helped. She can close rifts, she can kill demons, but this is...better. It doesn't twist her stomach up the way killing things does.

"Bogs," he grumbles. "It's the mud that does it. You think you're walking on solid ground and then—squelch. Really makes the joint act up."

"I can't imagine. I've never even broken a bone."

He smirks, eye sliding lazily open again. "Careful. Your incredible bad luck will make sure that happens next."

She chuckles, but can't hold his gaze; her eyes drop back to his foot. "I'm afraid the world probably has worse in store for me than broken limbs."

She can feel him watching her, considering, but doesn't look up until his weight shifts toward her rather than leaning away. Her fingers pause in their work.

"Does the mark bother you?" he asks.

She turns her palm up. Her hands are still wrapped, only her fingers bare, but the faintest green glimmer makes it through.

"It doesn't hurt," she says, which is, at least, honest.

"That's not what I asked."

"Of course it bothers me." Her voice comes out sharper than she intended, and she works to soften it. "Nothing I can do about it, though, is there? It is what it is."

He touches her hand. "Mind if I take a look?"

She fights the urge to close her fingers, make a fist. "Go ahead."

He unravels the wrapping. For someone with such calloused, enormous hands—they dwarf hers—his motions are strangely delicate. He holds her hand in both of his when the cloth has fluttered to the ground between them, examining the mark with a furrow in his scarred brow.

"Huh," he says finally. "Weird."

She snorts, her free hand coming up to smother the sound. Of all the reactions to the mark—curiosity, fear, eyes straying to her hand but mouths too afraid to ask—this is somehow the kindest. His thumb presses right to the center of it.

"What, are you expecting to fall through?" she asks.

"Would make sense. Like those rifts. Kind of expected it to be like an open wound, but it's just a scar that glows." The pad of his thumb traces the jagged line; the light flares brighter.

"Good for reading by, though. Pisses Cassandra off. She's doesn't say anything, but I can hear her stewing."

He laughs, and she realizes suddenly how strangely intimate this situation has become: her hand cradled in his, her thigh pressed against his good leg, the two of them leaning in over her hand, close.

As though he feels the sudden tension in her muscles, he releases her hand. "Thanks, boss. I'll let you get some sleep."

Awkwardly, she gets to her feet. One of her legs tingles from being sat on too long. He picks the wrapping up from the floor and offers it to her; she dares a glance at his remaining eye, but can't discern a single thing from his expression.

"Anytime," she mumbles.

Cassandra gives her a searching look when she ducks into the correct tent, but doesn't pry. Kat thanks the Maker for that.


End file.
